Boston
by PeaceLoveAndAcoustics
Summary: Alfred is walking down the streets of Boston when the memories of an old friend pop into his head. Drabble, one shot, implied USUK


Disclaimer: Just a quick drabble that I wrote for my friend for her birthday. Probably not going to finish this... Enjoy!

Sometimes, things in life aren't always as they seem to be. Moments in life are not always captured, even though we want time to stand perfectly still. And sometimes, only sometimes, we read people completely, and utterly wrong. We can brag and boast about how much we 'know someone', or how we can 'read them like an open book'. We go around making these claims and exclamations, even without any hesitation. Sure, the doubt is sitting there in the back of our minds, clawing to escape, but what can you do?

We'd never admit it.

No, we weren't built for that.

What we need is an escape.

From ourselves.

Alfred hugged his stylish, winter jacket tighter around his muscular frame, trying to tone down the winter's harsh, cruel winds that were blowing about the city. Pure, white, virgin snow untouched by the world's inhabitants lay in banks along the road, piling up, begging to be explored by a curious mind. His heavy snow boots crunched the melting ice and sidewalk salt beneath him, and to his surprise, that was the _only _noise that he seemed to hear.

Sure, the city was lively during this time of year, but Alfred found himself unable to concentrate on all of the chaos around him. Cars zoomed past, going to fast on the slick, icy roads beneath their studded tires. Children laughed and played in the snow banks, creating mindless creatures, bragging to their friends how they created a masterpiece. Alfred let his mouth stretch out to a thin smile, his lips not used to the foreign shape that they had just created.

The blonde was not used to smiling these days. When he was all alone in his messy apartment, he would stand in front of his bathroom mirror for hours, just trying to get his muscles to work with him. White knuckles would grip the edge of the sink, his palms turning red from the amount of friction between his skin and the white tile. He usually just let his head hang, not wanting to come to terms with yet another failed attempt at trying to feel some sort of emotion.

These days, Alfred just felt like he was completely rubbed raw. The apartment that overlooked the city skyline was never empty, and Alfred himself felt as though he was becoming some sort of social outcast hermit. If the day was particularly bad, he would wrap himself in his blankets, not letting the outside air touch his fragile skin; for he was afraid that little contact would make him break.

He knew that he was weak, there was no doubt in his mind that he wasn't. All of his friends had picked up on it, saying snide comments and whispering about themselves when he entered the room. Most came over on a whim, just checking up on him to see if he had 'offed himself yet'.

Alfred really didn't like to think about that. Not since the incident had occurred. No, he never let the thought of suicide cross his mind.

He wasn't that weak...

Was he?

"Mister?"

Alfred glanced up, seeing a child staring back at him. Alfred knelt, getting within eye level of the little, brown-haired boy. "Yes?"

"You just were standing there, staring at the sky. My friends and I were worried..."

Alfred looked at the boy, a bit puzzled. "Really?" He questioned, bringing a gloved hand to the back of his neck, rubbing the exposed skin nervously. He shivered at the icy contact, but quickly ignored the tingly sensation. "I guess I hadn't noticed that I had stopped walking,"

"Are you alright, though?" The little brunette boy asked, tilting his head to the side.

"No need to worry about me, little man!" The blonde exclaimed, jumping up. "I just get a bit distracted by my thoughts, that's all."

"What are you thinking about, Mister?"

Alfred smiled at the boy, lightly patting him on the top of his head. "Just an old friend, that's all." Alfred waved his hand over his shoulder, silently signaling his goodbye. His feet trudged deeper and deeper into the snow, piercing the white substance.

_An old friend. _Now that was a thought that made him laugh.

Alfred dug into the deep pockets of his coat, searching for his apartment key. He rummaged deep within the linings of the coat, ruffling through wadded up bills, loose change, and old receipts. His numbing fingers found the metal at last, and he silently said a quick thanks. He proceeded to put the key into the lock, a soft _click _signifying that his door had been opened.

Now, Alfred wasn't the neatest person in the world. Sure, he prided himself in being clean and presentable, but he couldn't say the same about his habitat. Clean dishes were still sitting there from this morning's wash, blankets coated the living room floor, empty bags of McDonald's other fast food joints were overflowing his garbage can, and his bed was unmade. He let out a little chuckle, and placed his keys gently on the table.

He removed his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack beside his door. His left hand shut the door, earning a _thud _. Satisfied, he made his way into his bedroom, kicking stray pieces of clothing into the air. A couple of shirts landed on his bed, a few landed on his pillows. "God dammit..." He muttered to himself, throwing the handful into the hamper. He stopped for a moment, looking at one of the shirts in his hands.

_The Sex Pistols. _

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Alfred said, irritated. He put the shirt back on his bed, and laid down with it. The American curled up his knees tightly to his chest; he brought his arms down, wrapping them around his legs. "I really didn't want to look at that..." His whisper went unheard; his mind decided to disobey him entirely.

_It was two years ago, the heavy scent of spring was thick within the whipping winds of California. Wild flowers poked out of the green grass, their delicate forms swaying in the breeze. The bright, yellow sun provided warmth for the creatures below, its beams being the nurturer all across the land._

Alfred walked down the sidewalk, his books in his hands. He was making his way to his last college class of the day, and, it being a weekend, he was going to go and have fun with his friends afterwards. Maybe they would go to a club and get drunk? Alfred laughed at the thought. Knowing his luck, he would have to be the designated driver. He smirked at the thought as he entered the building.

He noticed the clock, and saw that he only had two minutes left to get to class. Shit! Gotta hustle, Jones! Don't wanna be late! His legs pumped up the output of their energy, doubling his speed. He accidentally ran into some of the students in the hallway, and he yelled, very loudly, "Sorry, dudes!" over his shoulder. The blond made it into the rather spacious classroom just as the door was about to close. "Made it!"

"Yes, Mr. Jones. It is rather nice that you showed up on time today," His professor mocked, very annoyed at his usual tardiness. "Please, take your seat. I trust you read the required material for the quiz today?"

Alfred plopped down in his seat. "Totally!"

_** I am so dead. **_

Arthur Kirkland looked at the man, and sighed. What was with him? Why was he so late all the time? From what Arthur had overheard from conversations in the hallway, his apartment was literally two blocks away from their campus. He shut his green eyes as the quizzes were being passed out, his pencil silently tapping out a melodic rhythm. He opened them as the professor made it to his desk, personally handing him his quiz.

'How could he fail this? This is very simple stuff...' Arthur flew through the quiz with ease, finishing within five minutes. He put down his pencil, and proceeded to stare out of the window.

Alfred blankly stared at the test. He was five minutes in and the only thing he had managed to write was his full name. He looked over to the British student just sitting there, leafing through his literature book like it was no big deal. Alfred secretly envied his brain.

_**I bet he read the book twice. **_

It was heading towards the end of the period, and Alfred was growing desperate. He wrote a note, and threw it over to the Brit. Arthur picked it up, and unfolded it. In the most horrid handwriting he had ever graced his eyesight with, it read:

_**"Dude, can you help me out? I seriously cannot fail this quiz. I'll get kicked out of the class!" **_

Now, Arthur Kirkland will be the first one to tell you he wasn't about to cheat on an exam, but something within him gave him the idea to write back with all the answers written (very neatly, he might add), on a separate sheet of paper. His arm flexed forwards, handing the other blond the carefully folded note.

Alfred opened the note and quickly began copying down the answers, and he looked back at the Brit and smiled. The bell rang two minutes later, signifying the students that class was over, and that they could leave. Alfred ran up to the desk, turned in his quiz, and ran into the hallway. "Hey, dude! Wait up!"

The British blond looked over his shoulder, and rolled his eyes at the boy. What could he possibly want

_**now? **__He had helped him pass the test that he was going to fail without his help, so what else did he need? Arthur decided that he didn't want to stick around to find out; an old, worn copy of __**Catcher in the Rye **__awaited him back at his apartment. His legs quickened their pace as the tried desperately to lose the blond American man who seemed to match his speed. Arthur stopped dead in his tracks, and locked his green eyes with a pair of blue ones. "What the hell do you want?"_

Alfred bit his lower lip, a tad bit embarrassed. He had heard that this Brit had a foul temper, but he had never experienced it himself before. Alfred took one step forward with his left foot, and leaned close to the other college student. "I just wanted to thank you for the answers. You really did me a favor, man."

"And I told you not to worry about it, but here you are," Arthur folded his covered arms across his chest, "bringing up the subject." His lungs let out a rather long, annoyed exhale. "Look, why don't we just never mention this ever again, okay? That way, we can both go on with our lives."

"You don't want me to thank you?" Alfred arched a thin, blond brow at the other man. "Most people ask for something in return, you know."

"I'm not most people," The Brit retorted, annoyance covering his words. "I'm going home now to read, so don't bother following me. Good day, Jones."

"Let me treat you to coffee."

Arthur turned on his heel. "I don't drink coffee."

Alfred ran his worn fingers through his golden locks, hating the memory that had just appeared in his head. Why was he thinking such thoughts in the first place? He hated his brain for this. He turned on his side, and let out a deep sigh.

"I hate you."


End file.
